


Girl in the Crimson Cloak

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Dark Fairytale, F/M, Gen, Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: *AU* Hermione will do whatever it takes to get the upper hand against her target, Fenrir Greyback. As it happens, 'whatever it takes' turns out to mean donning a cloak enchanted to lure male werewolves out in the open . . . by making her smell like a she-wolf looking for a mate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Kittenshift17's Halloween Prompts: Day 10. Chapters 1 and 2 written to meet said prompts.
> 
> As stated in the summary, updates will be sporadic. AU setting. Short chapters.
> 
> This story is intended as non-heavy entertainment, only. If you are of a mind to read something super-serious, or to point out typos or minor grammatical errors, then please read no further. I'm writing this for fun, as my hobby, and will not tolerate anyone trying to make me feel 'less-than' about the quality of my work, simply because it's not edited to the level of a published novel prior to posting.
> 
> FANCAST:  
> Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

 

 **CHAPTER ONE**  

"Tell me you're joking," Hermione said, unable to stop a mirthless laugh from tumbling out as she picked up the swath of crimson velvet.

Aunt Minerva arched a brow at the young woman. "I never joke about magic, my dear. No one has successfully hunted down a werewolf in decades. You want to take up your great-grandfather's profession? You'll need an edge."

"And _this_  is my edge? Making them think I want to . . . well, you  _know_." Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. Dear gods, she'd nearly slipped and talked about shagging right in front of her elder! Not that Minerva McGonagall hadn't let fly her own share of doozies, but  _still_. . . .

"A man is never so easily caught off-guard as he is in the moment he's ready to drop his trousers."

Clamping her hand over her mouth, Hermione just barely muffled a scandalized laugh. "Auntie! You're terrible."

Once more, Minerva arched a brow, grinning wickedly a she crinkled the bridge of her nose. "I have my moments, don't I?"

Nodding, the would-be huntress whirled the cloak up, around her shoulders, letting the soft folds settle before turning to face Auntie, again. "Well, how do I look?"

The old woman shook her head with a snicker and returned her attention to the potion she was brewing. "Like you're about to take a basket to your sick grandmother."

Hermione forced a laugh at that. Of course, she hadn't told Auntie that part of her plan to lure out the creature that had been scaring the daylights out of the villagers recently was to go wandering about the woods, making herself seem vulnerable. No, no. The old witch would never agree to that. It would be fine. She was trained, and Auntie had taught her defensive charms, she'd be able to defend herself, even if she got trigger-shy at the last minute.

"Well, let's hope it's as warm as it looks." The young woman glanced out the window. "Sunset. All right, I'm off. Wish me luck."

"You're . . . you're going out  _now_? Are you sure about this?"

Hermione uttered a quick laugh as she shook her head. "Oh, I knew you'd fret. And no, not especially sure. This may prove to be no more than a scouting trip, figuring out where he  _isn't,_  at least—especially if this cloak's enchantment works like you say."

"No, my dear." Minerva added a few blossom petals to the brew and pivoted on her heel to look at the girl. "I mean are you sure you want to pursue this . . . line of work?"

Showing the good grace not to roll her eyes, Hermione nodded as she tucked her dagger into her boot. "Are we really doing this again?" Auntie had fussed when the girl had hired a combat trainer, she'd fussed when the girl had moved onto weapons; she'd all but hexed her to try and keep the girl from buying her daggers and crossbow.

Now—the efforts of all her fussing and stinging spells exhausted, perhaps—she seemed to be resorting to fixing the girl with a melancholy look.

Minerva's shoulders dropped. Setting aside her work, she crossed the room to grasp the girl's shoulders with gentle fingers. "We are. Because, for all your bluster, I never imagined you'd  _actually_  go through with this when the time came."

Hermione let out a sigh. She couldn't find it in her to be upset . . . not even over the woman's admittance to doubting her resolve. "I know you're worried about me, but—"

"Oh, you are going to force my hand, aren't you?"

Frowning, Hermione shook her head. "Force your hand about what?"

"I didn't want to tell you this. No one wanted to tell you this—indeed, we'd thought this all behind us when we moved the family here."

Hermione followed the guidance as Minerva led her to sit down at the bench beside the apothecary table. She'd never actually gotten the full story on why their family had up and left their old village—every time she'd asked over the course of her twenty years, someone conveniently and slyly changed the subject. Eventually, she realized it was not a subject up for discussion and stopped asking, even if her wild curiosity on the matter had never truly abated.

"You're sort of starting to scare me," the girl said, an awkward laugh edging her voice.

There went Auntie's eyebrow again, arching up like it was trying to run into her hairline. "Well, perhaps it's about time  _something_  did." With a sigh, the old woman sat, taking Hermione's hands between her own. "We did not leave Godric's Hollow of our own volition all those years ago. When we came to Hogsmeade, it was . . . it was because we were  _driven_  out of our home."

Hermione's face pinched in a troubled expression. "Why?"

"Your grandfather and I? Well, our mother . . . she was one of _them_. In fact, it was her husband who urged the hunts to stop. While he did so for the right reasons—we were losing more people than we were killing werewolves, it seemed—once the townspeople learned of what she was, they refused to believe his words were out of anything more than the desire to protect her. Your grandfather and I were still very small children at the time, so we didn't fully understand what was happening." Once more, Auntie sighed. "When we asked, we were told that we were offered a choice—a poor choice, but a choice, nonetheless. Leave and never return there, or remain, and know that every day might be the one we breathed our last. We were  _also_ told that would be the last anyone spoke of it."

Hermione's frowned deepened as she pretended this news _wasn't_  the most troubling thing she'd ever heard. "This has nothing to do with us. Lycanthropy is not hereditary!"

"Perhaps not, but the fact remains, you _have_  wolf blood flowing through your veins."

"So? That will . . . ." Shaking her head, the girl stood, a determined look on her face. "If it's of any use, at all, it'll just make me a better hunter, won't it?"

Minerva shrugged, smoothing her hand against her too-tidy salt and pepper bun. "Perhaps, but there's more than that. There's a chance that, because of your blood . . . ."

The girl's brows lifted, a thrill of fear winding through the pit of her stomach for the briefest moment as her great-aunt let those words hang in the air between them. "Because of my blood?"

The witch snickered, but it was a dark, humorless sound. " Gods, I  _never_  should've given you that cloak; I was  _so_ certain you'd never make good on this. Because of your blood, should you find yourself in the presence of a male werewolf . . . there's a  _chance_ you may want precisely what that cloak is designed to make him  _think_  you want."

Swallowing hard, Hermione lifted the sides of the cloak in her hands, looking down at the long sweep of crimson around her. "But you said . . . you said the enchantment would make them think  _I'm_  a werewolf who wants to—to—"

"Precisely."

Furrowing her brow, the girl gave herself a sobering shake. Great-grandfather had left hunting behind, presumably because his wife being bitten had changed his perspective. And for the better part of a century, the werewolves had been quiet—but those who had returned to hunting would disappear on their outings to track the creatures, never to be seen again. Now here was this . . . this Fenrir Greyback, taunting the people of Hogsmeade with his presence, making them fear the full moons, again.

Making them worry over how he seemed to edge closer and closer without ever actually making his intentions clear.

Hermione forced another gulp down her throat as she squared her shoulders. Leaning down, she dropped a kiss on Auntie's cheek before turning on her heel and making her way across the floor.

"Hermione—"

"Don't worry, Auntie," the girl said, casting the bizarre combination of a wistful smile and a resolute look over her shoulder as she pulled open the door. "I'm stronger than anything like that. And I'll  _prove_ it, by capturing Greyback and dragging him back to the village for the priests to deal with."

Watching the young woman disappear out into the dark of night, Minerva sighed and shook her head. Returning to her brewing, she muttered under her breath in a mirthless sing-song tone, "Then you'll prove stronger than the rest of us."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione sighed as she set down her mug for another serving of mead. Percy, the bar tender arched a brow, but poured her a refill, just the same. Propping her elbow on the bar, she braced her chin against her palm and simply stared into the depths of her drink for a few moments.

She'd refused to return to Auntie's house, even after realizing that she was too upset by that story to pay much attention to the hunt. She'd wandered the woods for a bit, but didn't make it very far before she found herself doubling back into the village. And straight on, into the pub.

She didn't want Aunt Minerva to know she was unsettled, then the old woman would just feel awful, and Hermione couldn't do that to her. If she thought about it, though,  _really_  thought about it, the revelation made sense. . . . .

That game that she and her cousin Harry used to play, the one where they went into the woods and howled, hoping to hear back from the wolves lurking deep in the heart of the forest. The other village children never got a response when they tried, but she and Harry always had. Just a silly game they all played to scare themselves, and each other, as children did.

When no one could figure out why the wolves responded to them, alone, Hermione offered up the most logical explanation she could think of. Auntie was a witch—clearly she'd cast a spell on her young kin to get the wolves to answer them. That it was a ploy to scare the village children, so they'd all stop venturing into the woods.

After all, they'd all jumped and ran when they'd heard the real wolf howls echoing back to them.

Well . . . . Frowning, Hermione uttered a sigh before she lifted her mug for a long, draining swig. She hadn't wanted to leave the woods in those moments. She'd never stopped to examine the feeling, before, but . . . . When the other children had run from the howls, she'd run because they had, not because she was actually frightened.

Setting down the mug, she blinked hard a few times, holding back a sudden, stinging wash of tears. She hadn't been frightened, she'd felt calmed. She'd felt like . . . .

The girl swallowed hard as she nodded to herself. She'd felt like she had when she was all snuggled up under a blanket in her own bed at her parents' house. Warm . . . welcomed.

Like if she'd wandered into the woods all those years ago, following the howls of the wolves, she'd have been going  _home_.

Giving herself a shake, Hermione polished off her second round with another long swig and slammed the mug down against the bar. And this stupid cloak. She still had this cloak. Although . . . .

Percy lifted the flagon in offer of a refill, but the girl shook her head. Instead, she fished a Galleon from the pouch on her hip and handed it over. His ginger brows shooting up as she waived off his attempt to make change—but then, her family always were generous tippers—he pocketed the difference and turned back to the other patrons.

_Although_ , she started the train of thought, again, as she made her way across the pub floor and out the door. Given how reluctant Aunt Minerva was about Hermione going off on a hunt, and how she'd clearly hoped the revelations about their lineage would deter her, Hermione had to wonder if the cloak she wore was  _really_ enchanted to the effect Auntie said it was.

It could've just been a ploy, hoping to scare Hermione out of the idea of looking for werewolves. So many people were eager to search for something, until they had assurance they'd find it. Then, their eagerness wavered.

Stepping into the chilly night air of Hogsmeade in autumn, she pulled the crimson fabric around herself. Her gaze was on the rich velvet folds shifting around her as she walked. Could Auntie have lied to her? Was this cloak only that? A warm bundle of material?

Hermione shook her head. She didn't like to think that. But now that she _had_  thought it . . . .

It was the middle of the night, but Auntie's old friend—figuratively  _and_  literally—Albus Dumbledore, the local wizard, might not have gone to bed, yet. He kept his own, rather eccentric, hours. Perhaps he'd be awake now, and she could ask him to examine the cloak and tell her whether or not it was, in fact, enchanted.

Shaking her head, she decided against going to Albus' house. She could not bring herself to undermine Minerva like that.

She stilled her steps, suddenly, strangely cognizant of having lost track of her pace. How long had she been walking?

Her nostrils flared at the familiar, earthy scent in the air. She might've recognized the smell sooner, had she been paying attention. Brow furrowing, she noticed the ground beneath her, then. She really  _had_  been so caught up in her own thoughts that she'd never even spotted it when the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade had given way to the unpaved soil of the forest floor. The girl lifted her head to look around.

Her chestnut eyes went wide as she realized she stood just beyond the point where the village's boundary and the woods beyond met. She hadn't even meant to return here tonight. Not until morning, at least.

She could always keep going, she thought with a frown. She could . . . just walk into the woods and see how she felt . . . . Walk until some instinct told her to stop. That same instinct that had told her to continue on in when she was a little girl.

Yes, she didn't understand quite how she knew, but whatever that little voice in her was, she could trust it.

Closing her eyes tight, she shook her head. But no, no. She was tipsy and her mind was troubled. She was in no fit state to go traipsing about the forest tonight,guiding instinct or no guiding instinct.

It took more effort than she'd anticipated, but she turned away from the treeline.

Yet, as she took a step, that was when she heard the noise behind her. The distinct snap of a twig underfoot. She couldn't shake the impression that the sound was purposeful.

Her heart hammered against her ribcage and she swore if she  _were_ a wolf, her hackles would've just raised.

"Well, well . . . ."

Oh, dear  _gods_. She didn't want to turn to face the speaker—not with the way the rumbling buried beneath his voice made her body clench. Hermione had a terrible feeling about the identity of the person who was talking to her.

"Are you supposed to be Little Red Riding Hood?"

Hermione turned on her heel, aware that if this was who she thought it was, then perhaps she shouldn't have been so quick to guffaw at Aunt Minerva's warning. He was quite a bit taller than her, and she had to lift her gaze to meet his amber eyes. She had no idea how she was so aware of his broad shoulders, of his long, wild black hair shot through with threads of silver in her periphery—not when her attention was so completely captured by how he was looking at her.

Swallowing hard, she thought it a miracle she managed to find her voice. "And if I were? Who would that make you?"

He—she knew the man before her was Fenrir Greyback, she could  _feel_  it—smirked wickedly as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. "Me? Why, of course, I'm the Big Bad Wolf."

_You certainly are, aren't you?_  she thought, forcing a second gulp down her throat.

At her breathless silence, that smirk widened, somehow growing more wicked, still. Stepping closer until she was all but pressed against him, he said, "Now, isn't this the part where you ask if my great big teeth are all the better to eat you with?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hermione wasn't quite certain how or when it had happened, but the werewolf had whisked her further away from the boundary line between the village and the forest. By the time she came to her senses mere heartbeats later, she found her back against a tree as Fenrir pressed his body to hers.

The girl was vaguely aware of her hands on his broad shoulders, her fingers gripped into the sleeves of his tattered shirt. She couldn't be sure which part of what was happening made it more difficult for her to focus on anything but him.

There was the feel of how solid his muscles were against her, the feral gleam in his eyes as he lowered his head toward her, the rush of his breath over her skin as he inhaled, long and deep, at the side of her throat just below her ear. It was all she could do not to pull him tighter against her, still.

He chuckled, and she shivered at the way the rumbling sound seemed to go right through her.

Fenrir pulled back, meeting her gaze. There was the rush of his breath, again, this time against her lips as he exhaled sharply. "I know what you are," he said, his voice low. "You nearly had me fooled for a second, there."

She swallowed hard, still so painfully aware of every bit of him pressed to her even as she thought this cloak must not be as powerful as Auntie claimed if the werewolf wasn't deceived by it. "Oh?"

He nodded, speaking as he lowered his head to her throat, once more. "You're a wolf-child. Rare breed, you are."

Hermione'd never heard that term before in her life, but she was rather confident she could piece together its meaning without too much assistance. "I don't understand."

Dragging his teeth and lips down her throat toward her collar bone, he went on, talking between playful nips through her clothing, "Human with wolf's blood in their veins? Surely this doesn't surprise you . . . you smell like  _something,_ but surprise isn't it."

She lowered her gaze, watching as he dipped further, still. A shocked gasp choked out of her as he snapped his teeth against her nipple through her blouse. At the sound, he laughed, again—another deep, throaty rumble—as he moved to her other breast, nuzzling the soft weight before biting her, once more.

He was utterly stealing her ability to think, she realized as she let her head to tip back. Her eyes drift closed and she gave herself over the feel of his mouth moving lower, and of his hands sliding down her body to start hitching her skirts up around her hips.

She'd been thinking . . . .

Fenrir slipped one hand between her thighs. The brush of his fingertips against her was somehow both rough and teasing, all at once.

The girl shook her head. She'd been trying to figure something out . . . .

Her own fingers had gone and tangled themselves in his thick, dark hair. It seemed she was trying to urge his mouth lower faster than he was willing to move.

"Such an eager thing. Suppose it's true what the others say about wolf-girls."

Biting her lip to hold in a moan, she couldn't seem to stop herself from rocking against his fingers. "The others?" This wasn't at  _all_ what she'd meant to think about.

He pushed up the bottom of her blouse, taking a moment to swirl the tip of his tongue in her navel as he got on his knees. "The other werewolves."

Though she didn't look down, she was aware of him parting her. She was aware of his free hand cupping her left leg behind the knee and pulling it up over his shoulder.

And, even though she didn't look down, she somehow knew he'd cast his gaze upward. That he was watching her as he continued stroking her, as he leaned close enough that she could feel his breath against the slick skin.

As he leaned just a hair's breadth closer, flicking out his tongue to taste her.

She thought she could collapse on the spot from the sound he made then, like some starved beast scenting a fresh kill.

But, she couldn't help herself. Even in her daze, she wondered what he meant. "What do they say about us?"

Her breathless voice only brought another of those deep, low laughs out of him. "I'll tell you in a moment."

Hermione uttered another gasp as he brought his mouth to her, once more. There went more of those delicious noises of his as he lapped and suckled at her. The sounds he made drowned out that of her own soft, pleading moan as he ever so gently scraped at her with just the very edge of his teeth.

Her fingers tightened in his hair and she tilted her hips, trying to get closer to his mouth, still.

Fenrir could hear himself, he could hear the purely animal noises he was making as he feasted on her. And just beneath that, he could hear  _her_. He could hear the faintest little rumble of a growl beneath the divine noises spilling from her lips.

He slipped one hand behind her, cupping her arse with splayed fingers. Already he could feel her limbs going taut around him. This would give her just a little more of a push over the edge, he thought. Relinquishing his hold on her skirts, he drew his other hand between her legs. He used his grip on her to rock her against his mouth, even as traced up along her inner thigh.

Hermione cried out as his slid his fingers inside her. The way he moved her to press against his mouth as he entered her again and again had her on the brink before she even realized. She forced herself to look down at him, to see what expression he would make as she came.

As her orgasm tore through her, he looked  _enraptured_  . . . . His eyes closed, he tilted his head this way and that as he drew on the sensitive little bundle of nerves beneath his tongue. Fenrir nursed her through it, the working of his mouth and motions of his hand quickening until she collapsed back against the tree.

Until he heard the rasping of his wolf-girl catching her breath in the quiet night air.

She trembled against him and he eased the pressure of his mouth. He slowed his hand, withdrawing only after the last of her shivering movements stopped.

Pulling back, he rolled his jaw, seeming to savor the taste on his tongue as he met her gaze. That she'd appeared at the tree line like that . . . . That she gave into him so easily . . . .

That her scent appealed to him so . . . .

Climbing to his feet, he slid his hand around her neck and pulled her close for a savage, hungry kiss. He knew she was startled by the action—startled that he was making her taste herself on his tongue—but she relented. Whatever her feral little heart wanted, she was giving in as she returned his kiss with just as much fervor.

But she had no idea.

He pulled back, letting his head fall against hers as they caught their breath.

"What do they say about us?" she finally asked, again.

Fenrir smirked. This one certainly could be single-minded. "They say that wolf-girls . . . they're the only creatures in the world who make  _perfect_  mates for werewolves."

_That_  startled her even more than his kiss.  _"_ _Because of your blood, should you find yourself in the presence of a male werewolf . . . there's a_ _chance_ _you may want precisely what that cloak is designed to make him_  think _you want."_

Those were Auntie's words. And they'd rang true.

"No, no." She forced a gulp down her throat and shook her head. "You've misunderstood this entire thing!"

He chuckled, squaring his shoulders and standing straight. "Somehow, I get the notion that you're the one who's misunderstood things."

Furrowing her brow, she once more shook her head. "No. I . . . I didn't come into the woods for this. I meant to capture you!" Gods, was she really so flustered by this turn of events that she was blurting out her true purpose?

"Oh, I know," he said. From the pocket of his rumpled trousers, he produced her dagger.

Her jaw dropped and she made a grab for it—he must've sneaked it from her boot when he'd been, well, down  _there_. When she snatched the blade from him, she knew she could hardly consider it a victory, as he'd obviously  _let_ her take it.

Holding the dagger defensively, she demanded in an angry whisper, "Are you going to kill me now that you know?"

Again, there went that smirk. "No."

"Well, fine." She had no idea what to do from here—of all the ways she'd imagined finding Fenrir Greyback to go, a civil conversation after him proving what his great big teeth were all the better for had  _not_ been anywhere on the list. "Then you've got two choices if you don't want a fight."

"Oh! Do I, now?" He folded his arms across his chest.

Hermione determinedly ignored that the simple movement reminded her of just how wide and solidly muscled he was. "Yes. You come with me to the village so the priest can perform the proper rites to make you human, again."

His brows shot up. "Or?"

"Or you . . . you leave the vicinity of Hogsmeade and  _never_  return!"

Fenrir nodded in thought, licking his lips as he stared down at her. His fierce little wolf-girl huntress, with her fierce little knife. Oh, yes, what had drawn him to Hogsmeade so many months ago was plain as day, now.

"Hmm," he uttered the sound as he stepped closer to her, once more. So close, the tip of the dagger pressed just over his heart. Ohh, the look of surprise on her face at that was exquisite. "I really don't think I'll be undergoing any rites this evening, thanks very much. As for leaving the vicinity, well . . . ."

The girl arched a brow, even as she refused to back down—refused to pull back her blade even a millimeter. "Well?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I can't leave, either." He swooped closer, still, ignoring the way the dagger's point bit into his skin through his shirt as he caught her in another hungry kiss.

By the time he pulled back, they were both once again gasping for breath.

"You see, I've come to this village for something  _very_ specific." Pressing his forehead to hers, again, he held her gaze as he said, "And I refuse to leave without it."

She didn't know how she kept herself from trembling as the meaning of his words bounced around in her head. "And if  _it_ refuses to have anything more to do with you?"

"That won't be a problem." He sighed, pulling away for the final time as he took a backward step. "As now that  _its_  been this close to me, it won't be able to stop itself from trying to find me, again."

"You don't really think I—" A sound in the forest cut her off. And damn her that she turned her head to look, because when she returned her attention to the place he'd just stood, Fenrir Greyback was gone.

Damn werewolf reflexes, she thought with a frown.

She waited for a minute, listening. She didn't want him to double back and snatch her up. If she strained, she could hear the rustling of something retreating from the scene in the distance.

Keeping her blade out as a precaution, Hermione turned on her heel and started back toward the village. She would never again question Aunt Minerva's wisdom, she thought. The old witch had warned her. And the cloak had seemed to do nothing.

He didn't think she was a werewolf, he'd recognized her for what she was. Maybe that was part of Auntie's ploy all along. She'd not wanted to tell Hermione their family's secret, and if she smelled as good to a male werewolf as Fenrir let on simply being what she was, then telling her the cloak was enchanted in that way was a good cover.

Letting her think the cloak would lead him to believe she wanted to mate with him after  _telling_  her she might end up feeling that way, herself, just getting close to him, had probably been more of Minerva McGonagall's nonsense to scare the girl into giving up her pursuit before she'd started.

That wily crone.

But then, he  _had_  said she'd nearly had him fooled, so perhaps the cloak was enchanted, after all. Not as though such a thing mattered, now. The girl knew she was simply looking for minutia to pick apart to distract herself from what she'd just let happen with the werewolf she'd intended to hunt.

Hermione sighed and shook her head as she crossed from the woods over the boundary into the village. At least the quiet of Hogsmeade in the dead of night was good for collecting her thoughts before she returned home.

But she stopped short only a few steps along the road.

A bit of ice formed in the pit of her stomach as she turned on her heel and looked out into the night-darkened forest behind her. He was still somewhere in there, just as he'd been all these months.

He'd called her  _Hermione_ , but she'd never told him her name.

Fenrir Greyback had never set foot into town, had never come face to face with any of the locals, so how then . . . ?

Swallowing hard, she felt confused tears gather in the corners of her eyes. "Who told you my name?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read either story, Roman Fancast: Lasse Matberg

**Chapter Four**

He tossed and turned that night. How unusual. After the evening he'd had, Fenrir'd thought he would sleep like a baby. And though not unpleasant, the images that plagued his sleep were  _hardly_ conducive to a restful slumber.

Wonderings of what would happen the next time their paths crossed. Thoughts of what she'd look like on her knees . . . what it would feel like to grip his fingers into that wild hair of hers as she took him between those small, perfect lips.

A sound that could only be described as a mournful groan tore out of him as he awoke—right in the middle of a dream about throwing her onto her back and sinking into her. The feel of her limbs tightening around him as her body tensed beneath his seemed so real . . . .

The sensation of thrusting into her and withdrawing again and again was  _so_ delicious, he was surprised he hadn't burst before opening his eyes and bolting upright in his cot.

Dropping his face into his hands with a growl at himself, he tried to ignore the burst of rich chuckling from the rundown cabin's front porch. An irritated scowl marring his features, Fenrir threw back his ragged covers and climbed to his feet. He'd let the scents of coffee and grilled meat hanging in the air ease his frustration with letting her go so easily last night . . . and his agitation with his unexpected visitor.

He dragged his feet in plodding steps across the cabin toward the door. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he took one last stab at trying to push the scent of her skin from his mind. Her taste and her voice seemed entrenched in his thoughts, however, so he opted for simply trying to ignore them as he crossed the threshold and turned to face the other werewolf, hunkered down at the small porch's table.

Arching a brow, his visitor grinned, speaking into his mug before taking a sip of coffee, "Sounds like someone had a good night?"

"Oh, yes, Roman, someone did." Fenrir rounded the table to claim the seat on the other side. "My instincts were right, I found  _her_."

Chuckling, again, Roman's brows shot up. "Well done, Pup! How did it go?"

A wicked smirk curving his lips, Fenrir hummed lightly under his breath a moment as he thought back on last night. "Spent some quality time with my face between her thighs."

The older wolf let out a quick, howling sound of approval and clapped. "That's my boy! So, is she one of _us_?"

Fenrir picked up the mug his maker had set aside for him, taking a long sip before answering. "Better . . . she's a wolf-girl."

Roman nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Nice. They are _especially_  tasty. This wolf-girl of yours have a name?"

"Hermione."

There was a moment of silence between the werewolves as Roman drummed his fingers against his bearded chin. "Why do I know that name?" He lifted his coffee for hearty gulp.

Wincing, Fenrir clarified—aware this was where it _wasn't_  so nice. "Because she's a Granger."

Spitting out the mouthful of liquid, Roman slammed down his cup and shot forward in his chair. "God _dammit_ , Pup! Have you lost your mind?"

This was what he was afraid of. The lecture. Clasping his mug between both hands, Fenrir started, "Look, I know what you're going to—"

"The Grangers are a Dagworth line, and Dagworth blood is off limits!"

"I know," Fenrir said with a nod. "But what am I supposed to do? It's  _her_ , I'm sure of it."

Roman closed his eyes, willing the angry veins of red threading the blue of his irises to die down. His pup had every right to want to be with the girl meant to be  _his_. But her identity made things . . . . Well, complicated was putting it lightly.  _Shit_.

"I actually don't know if there's anything you can do. I suppose there might be a loophole in the law _he_  laid down."

Fenrir's brows shot up. "Like what?"

"Fucked if I know," the older wolf said with a dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe if she's the one who comes to you. Or if—"

"Wait . . . ." His amber eyes widening, Fenrir sat up a bit straighter. "She  _did_  come to me. She sought me out. No idea how she managed to find me so easily, but . . . I just looked up and there she was, barely a meter away from me and staring into the forest."

Roman's brows shot up as he sucked at his impossibly sharp teeth. "Huh. That's . . . hardly common, now is it?"

"It's not anything that I've heard of before. But you said  _maybe_."

"Because I don't bloody know, all right?" Standing up, Roman paced the porch, raking his permanently clawed fingers through his long, unruly blond hair. "No one's ever challenged the law before."

Fenrir narrowed his eyes as he thought it over. "That brings us to the 'or' you mentioned."

"You want to bring an end to that law?" Roman let out a heavy, growling sigh, his enormous shoulders drooping. "Only way  _I_  know is to end the one who instated it."

Swallowing hard, fear—a foreign sensation to Fenrir Greyback—knotted in his stomach for a fleeting second as said, "So I have to kill  _him_."

With a roll of his eyes, Roman nodded. "You have to kill  _him_."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was nothing if not surprised to find the young, would-be huntress asleep on his porch when he opened the door that morning. She didn't look injured, which was a relief, given Minerva's recent concerns that the girl was growing bolder in her pursuit of her family's lost profession.

Sighing, the old wizard turned on his heel and disappeared back inside.

* * *

"Hermione?"

She stirred, aware of a warm, sweet aroma close to her face. Blinking her sleep-bleary eyes open, she found the old man seated beside her, holding out a mug of herbal tea.

She was oddly happy for the faint, biting chill in the air. The briskness of the morning reddened her cheeks, masking a blush as she thought back on what she'd dreamed while dozing here.

The imagined sensation of Fenrir pressing her up against that tree, of her legs wrapped around his waist as he brought her to orgasm didn't  _feel_  imagined, at all. She used the disorientation of having just woken up to mask her need to collect herself.

After a moment of blinking at him, a grateful smile curved her lips. She took the cup between both hands. "Thank you, Albus."

He nodded, turning his attention to the morning sky. "Do I ask why you are not home, or would you rather I did not?"

She took her first, soothing sip before speaking. "I'd rather you did not, but . . . . I just had a strange night, and I didn't feel like going home, and even less felt like attempting to explain what happened to Auntie."

"Mm." Albus frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "I take it whatever it was that made the night so strange is something that would cause your Aunt to give you her infamous 'I told you so' look?"

Hermione snickered. "You know our family so well."

The old man returned his gaze to her, observing the young woman as she drank her tea. After allowing her enough time to finish half the mug, he said, "But there is something more, isn't there? You are not just here to escape a sagely expression."

"No, but . . . it's rather something I'd prefer if we could keep between ourselves?" At Albus' immediate look of disapproval, she tacked on, "It's nothing terrible, I just wanted to double-check something, and I don't want Auntie thinking I don't trust her.  _Please_?"

His bony old shoulders sagging, he sighed. "All right. But you cannot use that pout on me again for another entire year!"

"Thank you!" She immediately threw her arms around him in a hug.

Smiling, he shook his head. "Yes, yes. Now, enough of this. What is it you need?"

Pulling back, she met his twinkling blue eyes behind those trusty, half-moon spectacles. "I just need you to examine my cloak. It was supposed to have an enchantment on it, but I'm not so certain."

Nodding, Albus stood, holding down his hand to her to help the girl to her feet. "Do you need to know the type of—?"

"No, no." She followed him into the house and removed the article of clothing in question. She could not begin to think of how embarrassed she'd be if the old man understood the  _sort_  of magic with which the cloak was supposed to have been imbued.

"Just please, whether or not it's enchanted,  _and_  the strength of the enchantment, nothing more."

"Okay." Albus took the cloak and turned toward his worktable.

* * *

As she left a few hours later, her cloak once more snuggly around her shoulders, Hermione didn't know what to do. She understood that Auntie had told her a lie so she would not need to come clean about their family history—she'd already suspected as much. But why didn't she then admit to it once everything had come out into the open? There was no need for pretense, then, was there?

_Fenrir pulled back, meeting her gaze. There was the rush of his breath, again, this time against her lips as he exhaled sharply. "I know what you are," he said, his voice low. "You nearly had me fooled for a second, there."_

Her steps stilled beneath her as she neared the short staircase to the cottage she shared with Aunt Minerva. Fenrir shouldn't have been confused. His words indicated that he _knew_  the difference between the scent of a fellow werewolf, and the scent of a wolf-blood.

So why, then, had  _her_  scent confused him for even a moment?

Closing her eyes in a pained expression, she shook her head. How had Auntie _expected_  that she'd smell more like a werewolf than a wolf-blood, enough to offer the cloak as a subterfuge about it?

Swallowing hard, Hermione opened her eyes and started up the stairs. She didn't like it, but she had to discuss this with Auntie, now.

She had to understand why there was more wolf in her scent than Aunt Minerva's tale of their heritage would indicate.

She _had_  to know why the older woman felt the need to keep secrets from her.

Blinking back tears at the notion of confronting the witch, Hermione opened their front door and stepped inside. Her relationship with Minerva was so important to her, she couldn't imagine how either of them were going to feel if this conversation lead to revelations that damaged their very precious dynamic.

Again closing her eyes, she breathed past the stinging in the tip of her nose. "Please let this be some misunderstanding," she said to herself in a whisper as she heard Auntie's footfalls on the upper floor and coming toward the staircase toward her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"I was in love once, did you know what?"

Hermione swallowed hard, letting Aunt Minnie's words hang in the air a moment. The second the witch had set foot on the main floor of the cottage from the staircase, the girl had launched the first question that had come to mind.

_"Why did you lie to me about this cloak?"_

Auntie had sighed heavily. Going about making herself a cup of tea—and deciding the girl did not need one given how uppity she already seemed so very bright and early in the morning—and then settled herself at the table across from her niece.

_"It is rather a bit of a sad story. One I'm not certain you truly want to hear."_

_Sniffling, Hermione shook her head. "I need to hear it. Auntie, I met him last night. Fenrir Greyback. Our paths crossed like I knew he was there, and the things he said . . . . I need to know what the truth is. Please."_

_"You two found one another that easily, did you?"_

_The girl nodded._

_"Very well. The story starts with me," Auntie said, a sad smile curving her lips and a distant look in her eyes._

"I . . . I didn't know that, you've never mentioned being in love, Auntie." Sure, secret trysts with prospective suitors she'd mentioned, but actual love? Not once.

Minerva shrugged, taking another sip of her tea. "Because the boy I loved? I had loved him with all my heart—in fact, I am rather certain I still do—and he felt the same for me, but . . . it wasn't meant to be."

"Did . . . ?" Hermione felt her throat close on the words. She'd never heard Aunt Minnie sound so sad before, but she had to know. "Did he die?"

"No."

"Then why couldn't you be together?"

Licking her parched lips, Minerva forced a shaky smile as she said, "Because he was a werewolf."

"I'm not sure I understand." The girl shook her head. "You said our link to werewolves started with Great-Gran."

"And that is true. That's where the link starts, but not when everything became known to me." Her expression grew pensive as she stared into her tea. "I was very much like you, that's why you worried me so. When I took you in after your parents passed, I'd hoped perhaps I could deter you from my path, but you ended up there, all the same. I was in the woods, believing myself the hardened huntress who could return our family to their former glory."

Hermione nodded, aware how this echoed her meeting with Fenrir. "That's when you met him."

Minerva gave a mirthless smirk as she nodded. "That's when I met him. I was closing in on this cave I'd heard some howls near. I bent to examine some tracks, and when I looked up, there he was." She swallowed hard, a tragically wistful tone in her voice as she went on. "The next thing I knew, we were in each other's arms, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. My whole world became about him. I would slip away from the village to meet him near every night. Sometimes, we'd get up to things that would make a harlot blush, others, we would simply sit together in a clearing, looking up at the stars."

That sounded so beautiful, Hermione's heart wrenched for the older woman, knowing already the story did not have a happy ending. "So what happened?"

"Would you believe that in the many months he and I were together, I had never told him my family name?"

Hermione's brows shot up. "Never?"

Minerva rolled her eyes, shrugging. "It didn't exactly come up. But one morning, I awoke to an invitation to meet a young man who wished to court me. That night, thrashing around the forest complaining about the madness of that to my love, and I said, 'Can you imagine? Me as Minerva  _Lockhart_?' He joked, 'Oh, that doesn't sound too bad as far as human names go.' I laughed and told him, 'The name sounds fine, it's the bloke attached to it that's insufferable. I like being Minerva McGonagall perfectly well, thank you.' When he heard my family name, he just froze. The smile slipped off his face and he looked . . . I dare say terrified, but he wasn't one who seemed to fear anything."

"And that was the end?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Minerva nodded. "More or less."

"Did he at least say why?"

"He did, in fact. Right then and there, he sat me down and explained that had he known, he never would've let us get so close, but we could not be together, anymore." Minerva drained her cup and set it down against the table with a loud  _thunk_. "As you know, our families, the McGonagalls, the Grangers, the Potters, we're all descended from the larger family line of Dagworth. And . . . there is one bloodline in charge of all other werewolves. Alphas who lord their power over  _all_ packs are bred from that bloodline. More random people out there have wolf blood than you'd think, but any wolf-children descended from the Dagworth line have been declared off-limits as mates to 'lesser wolves.'"

"Why?"

"Presumably because for some reason, the blood in our veins is stronger. It makes us a more ideal match for a werewolf. The alphas haven't chosen a mate that wasn't a she-wolf in a very long time, but—"

"But they declared our family off-limits so we'll always be an option for them?"

"So they're free to have their selection from our families, should they deign to take said option."

Hermione scowled. "That's appalling."

Auntie went on, nodding in agreement. "He said that the only way to change the law would be to kill the alpha who instated it, and at that time, he knew he was not strong enough to pull that off. Though, so much time has passed, I'd imagine if leadership changed hands, the latest in their line probably just upheld that law—they are a greedy bunch. Sometimes there has been leniency, though," Minerva said with a headshake. "He told me that on occasion, nature declares two people perfect mates for one another, and that certainly seemed to be the case for us. So, he approached the alpha and explained our circumstances, asking that he be granted permission to stay with me."

Hermione's brow furrowed, tears gathering in her eyes. "Permission that was denied?"

Turning her head to meet her niece's gaze, Minerva blinked, a lone droplet running down her cheek. "Permission that was denied. I had hoped that making you think returning to hunting was a foolish impossibility would deter you, and you'd never have to cross paths with one of them. But now, you and this Fenrir . . . ."

"Like you and your love? I just found him."

Minerva nodded. "I know you only just met him, but he will understand what you connection means. He'll likely go, as well, and ask for permission. And if it's denied . . . ." She shrugged, sympathy in her watering eyes as she stared across the table.

"Maybe it's not that way with us. Maybe . . . maybe it was just something . . . ." Hermione swallowed hard and shook her head, though she didn't believe her own words. "Fleeting."

"I hope that is the case for you," Minerva said nodding. She wanted the girl to be happy, but there was no happiness to be found for them in the arms of werewolves. "Because it is  _agony_ , my dear. It's been decades since he walked away from me and I still miss him as though it happened moments ago ."

Forcing another sad, shaky smile, Minerva closed her eyes. "I miss my Roman every day."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The girl found herself troubled all the following day by Aunt Minnie's heartbreaking story. She pretended it had nothing to do with Fenrir Greyback's recent introduction into her own life. As she'd told Auntie, they might be different. They might not be perfectly suited to one another—as the witch and her love had been—and then all this worry would be for nothing, anyway.

That night, she tossed and turned in her bed. Her thoughts flipped from memories of her chance meeting with that werewolf to imaginings of Minerva smiling as she strolled along, hand-in-hand with some whose face Hermione could not quite see.

Wrenched from sleep by a heavy sense of misery that accompanied those latter mental pictures, she sat up in bed. Her brow furrowing, she set her feet on the floor and stood, making a bee-line for the staircase to the main floor of their shared cottage. The mingled dreams had left her head feeling fuzzy and she felt in desperate need of a lungful of fresh air.

She pulled open the door and stepped onto the porch. Yet, after pulling the door closed behind her, she didn't simply take a breath. She inhaled deep and long . . . and then started down the porch steps.

Hermione didn't know where she was going, or why, but she was not at all surprised to find herself drifting through the late night quiet of Hogsmeade village toward the forest's edge. She simply felt the urge to go, like after hearing those wolf howls as a child.

Swallowing hard, she decided she would test what she was told might be true.

Inhaling long and deep, once more, she closed her eyes and allowed the feeling to guide her steps.

After she wasn't sure how long—aware of the streets giving way to the rough soil of the forest floor beneath her feet—she heard it. A sharp intake of breath. Oddly, she recognized the sound of sheer surprise that followed, despite that she'd only heard his voice for the first time last night.

She opened her eyes, her gaze landing on his unerringly. "Fenrir?"

He actually looked sad as he asked, "How did you find me this time?"

"I don't know." Minerva's heart wrenching tale ran through her head once more and she found herself offering him a watery smile as she sniffled. "I just started walking, and well, here I am. It's true, isn't it?"

His face falling, he closed his eyes as he asked. "So then you know?"

She waited until he opened his eyes, once more, before answering with a nod. "I know."

He wanted to tell her he was sorry; wanted to tell her he would try. Yet, no words would form as he instead found himself closing the distance between them to pull her against him in a hungry kiss.

Breaking away, she shook her head, though she could not bring herself to pull out of his embrace. Rather, she let him hold her to him as she rested her palms on his chest. "I  _know_ , but I'm not sure I  _understand_ ," she said, both of them needing to catch their breath in rasping gulps, despite that their kiss has only lasted few heartbeats.

Holding her gaze, he shrugged and linked his hands behind the small of her back. "I will tell you whatever I can."

"How did you know my name?"

Fenrir smirked. "I've been lurking on the outskirts of this village for months, now. Heard that old biddie you live with calling you through the square one night."

"But you know my family line?"

Forcing a gulp down his throat, he tipped his head back to gaze up at the stars through the break in the forest canopy as he answered, "You think no one ever publicly barked 'Hermione Granger' at you? In  _this_  place?"

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. The many times someone she'd told off or bested in some way had stormed after her hollering her full name zipped through her mind. Of course. He  _had_  been edging closer and closer to Hogsmeade from the forest all this time. Why hadn't it occurred to her that he'd known her name from so simple a thing?

Oh, probably because it  _was_  'so simple a thing.' and she did have quite the penchant for overthinking matters.

"It wasn't until after we parted ways that I started thinking on it and I remembered hearing your first  _and_  last name together." He lowered his attention to her face, once more. "I began, then, to hope that we might never again cross paths. But I'll admit I may have  _also_  thought about what could happen if we did."

Sniffling, she nodded in understanding of that sentiment. "The things you said last night . . . you sounded so certain we'd be together, one way or another. You sounded like you'd be thrilled when I found you again. But we might not be able to, well, to 'be', and you aren't happy to see me."

His brows shot up in surprise and he sputtered a laugh as those broad shoulders of his drooped. "Not happy?" The werewolf shook his head. "I  _am_  happy, and that's the problem. All werewolves know the Dagworth family lines. We know what our laws dictate. My maker . . . he was once in our place, and he . . . he was  _forced_  to walk away from what he had. His miserable, grumpy arse has been alone ever since. Rather sure I don't want to end up like him."

She heard Auntie's voice in her head, then.  _It_ _is_ _agony_ _, my dear. It's been decades since he walked away from me and I still miss him as though it happened moments ago._ Furrowing her brow, she asked in a low tumble of sound, "Your . . . your maker? The one who bit you, you mean?"

Fenrir nodded, his expression quizzical.

"Is his name Roman?"

Though his expression remained unchanged, his amber eyes narrowed in a suspicious look. "How'd you know?"

"Because that old biddie I live with is my aunt. Minerva McGonagall."

His brows pinched together as he repeated then name in a whisper. And, just like that, his eyes widened in shock. "Minnie is your aunt? Bloody hell."

Her eyes welled and she smiled uncertainly. "Does he talk about her?"

Chuckling, he brushed a kiss against her forehead. " _All_  the time! Nightmare. 'My Minnie' this and 'My Minnie' that."

The girl's face fell in an instant.

Troubled by the sudden change, he asked, "What?"

"She's been alone all this time, too, but . . . ." Uttering a mirthless laugh, she rolled her eyes. "But she never talked about him until earlier today. After I told her how you and I met, she gave me their story. I never knew before why she refused to marry. I just thought she didn't want that. I didn't know it was that she couldn't have the person she wanted to be with."

"The alpha who instated the law about your families, he's dead, but his son chose to uphold it. I doubt approaching him for permission is going to be met with a different answer than what his father gave Roman."

"No. Don't bother approaching him" Strangely determined, now, she gave a firm shake of her head.

A wounded look coloring his features, he said, "You don't even want me to try?"

At his expression, she couldn't help herself, standing on her toes, she slid her hands up around his neck and pulled his mouth to meet hers. It was not one of the intense, near-brutal kisses he seemed to favor, more tender and gentle exploration, before she pulled back to meet his gaze, once more.

"It's not that. I didn't ever think I'd have wanted something like this, but I can  _feel_  it." So strange that just days ago she thought herself the fierce huntress and he her prey. Now  _this_. This sense that everything was right as long as they were near each other. She slid her hands down along his—finely-muscled, if she did say so, herself—arms as she spoke, " _This_  is where I belong and it's suffocating to even consider that whether or not we can be together is someone else's decision."

"You're thinking up something, aren't you?"

Hermione snickered; he did seem to know her, already. "I am. The law says that werewolves can't be with the wolf-children of the Dagworth descendants, right?"

His features pinched in another suspicious look. He had the oddest feeling he knew where she was going with this. "Right . . . ?"

"If we're only off-limits while we're humans with wolf blood, then the answer is obvious. Make me a werewolf."

"What? That's madness. I won't consign you to a life you might not truly want on a whim!" He uttered a whining growl sound in the back of his throat, relinquishing his hold on her. Though, Fenrir caught her hand in his as he moved, lacing their fingers together even while he backpedaled a step from her.

"It's not a whim! It's a  _plan_." She waited until he refocused his obviously displeased and grumbly attention on her. "I'm not saying some flippant 'turn me into a creature of myth, too, _just_  so we can be together!' nonsense. Think about it. If you bit me, I could be stronger. I could go to the alpha with you, stand with you, fight with you.  _We_ could bring an end to this abominable law. Together."

Stepping close once more, he lifted his free hand to cup her cheek. "You mean to reunite Minnie and Roman?"

A small, trembling smile curved her lips, her eyes watering—dammit to hell!—all over again as she nodded. "I mean to reunite Minnie and Roman. So, please, do this for me. Give me the strength to help you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

She furrowed her brow, searching his face with her gaze as though she could not comprehend the single, _simple,_  word that had fallen from his lips. After a heartbeat, she shook her head, asking in a shocked whisper, "What?"

His eyes drifting closed, Fenrir's entire frame seemed to droop as he repeated, "No."

"But why?" Hermione wrenched out of his embrace and backpedaled a step. "I presented you a perfectly logical argument. There is no reasonable excuse for not granting me this."

Opening his eyes, a sad smile curved his lips as he met her gaze. "Listen to you. You want to talk logic and reason, but you're dealing with  _werewolves_."

She blinked a few times in rapid succession. "I fail to understand your point."

He let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. "If, someday, you wanted to become what I am— _truly_ wanted it—then I would do this for you. But you're asking me to do it as part of some scheme that, while noble, might get one of us killed."

"But—"

"Do you understand?" His amber eyes turned serious as he held her gaze. "If I ask permission, I might be denied, yes. But, if I bit you, and we faced down the alpha together, I could lose you, anyway. You could lose me. The situation for Minnie and Roman would remain unchanged, and one of us would have to live with the knowledge that we got the other one killed. Worse, with the fact that one of us had to  _watch_ the other die."

The girl frowned, shaking her head and scowling up at him. "Oh? So you have no plans to challenge him, yourself, if he tells you no?"

Fenrir straightened to his full height, his gaze darting about—as though in search of a response—while his mate folded her arms under her breasts and started tapping one foot against the forest floor. "I . . . don't recall saying anything about _that_  either way."

"Fenrir?"

At her shrill tone, he let out another sigh. "All right, so I  _might_ have it in my head to challenge him. But I won't let you have any part of that. If I challenge him alone and he beats me, he'll likely let me live so I can suffer the years of humiliation following that defeat, but if we go after him together and he beats us, he'd more likely kill me to punish you, or you to punish me. There's no upside to what you want to do."

"So, I'm supposed to what?" she asked, even as she watched him moving closer to her, once more. "Just wait around for you to come back to me or not?"

He slipped his arms around her, pulling her to him. "I know you're angry that this is the way things are. Living the rest of our lives separate, but knowing the other is out there in the world will hurt like hell, but if the alternative is that one of us might have to go on _actually_  alone? I'd rather know you're still out there, somewhere, even if I can't have you."

"You keep talking like those are the only two options. But what if we could win?"

Fenrir liked her optimism and her passion, but he thought perhaps her own hopefulness was blinding her to the reality of their situation. "You said it yourself. _If_. It's a risk I'm not willing to take."

"Now what?" she asked, vaguely aware of how their hands swept across one another's bodies, fingers scrambling to pull away troublesome fabric as they pressed closer, still. "We met just yesterday only for _this_  to possibly be our last night together?"

"Possibly," he said before capturing her in one of those hungry kisses that stole her breath as well as her ability to think.

His mouth never leaving hers, they somehow managed to struggle his shirt off him and lay it on the forest floor. Nearly sooner than she realized what was happening—not that she was complaining,  _or_  attempting to stop him—he scooped her into his arm to lay her down.

Breaking the kiss, he watched the movement of his own hands as he finished undressing her. Though he took his time looking her over, when his wandering gaze reached her face, she was watching him with  _quite_ the impatient expression.

He chuckled as he stood. "That eager to see what's under these, are you?" he asked, opening his trousers and pushing them down over her hips.

Her brows shot up as he peeled away what was left of his own clothing. Hermione's face reddened at the sight of him bared before her and a little giggle that was equal parts sudden shyness and giddiness erupted out of her. "It's definitely something worth looking at, I'm just wondering why you're taking so long. Are you _trying_  to tease me without even touching me?"

Fenrir's eyebrow shot up, that already familiar smirk curving his lips. "Oh?" he lowered himself before her as he spoke. "Why? Is it working?"

She reached for him, running her fingers over his skin—up his arms, across his chest, down the muscled lines of his abdomen. "Maybe."

Snickering, he caught her wandering hands in his own. Pressing her arms down on either side of her, he shook his head. "I wasn't meaning to, but I won't deny being pleased that you liked the view enough to think it was deliberate."

The girl closed her eyes, letting her head loll to one side against his shirt beneath her as he leaned over her. There was something so sweetly innocent—in wild contradiction to his savage appearance—in the way he explored her. He traced across her curves with curious fingertips as he brought his mouth to her throat.

All playful nips and grazes, he moved along her limbs, leaving not a single place on her body untouched by his lips.

Working his way back up to her face, he pulled back enough to meet her gaze. "The only thing deliberate about this is that I refuse to rush. If this is our only night, I want it to last as long as it can."

Though it really didn't suit the moment, Hermione felt her eyes welling up as she nodded.

His face crumbled at her expression and he let out a cooing sigh. "Oh, no. Please don't look like that."

"I just . . . ." She rolled her eyes as she thought. "I know _this_  part can be over faster than people expect—especially when they want to tear into each other the way we do. So, well . . . even if it's over fast, will you stay with me? Just until sunrise?"

Smiling, he nodded, leaning close to brush is mouth over hers in a kiss that was shockingly chaste for him. "Even if it's over fast, who's to say we can't have a repeat performance?" as he asked as he settled himself between her thighs. "Or several?"

She laughed in spite of her emotions running rampant, even as she braced, aware of the feeling of him positioning himself. A gasp tore out of her throat as he pushed his hips forward, entering her entirely in a single sharp motion.

Wrapping her limbs around him, she shivered as he withdrew and pushed forward again and again. Fenrir held her gaze as he moved, one hand on her hip to guide her motions as she rocked beneath him, meeting his thrusts, the other he brought up to her face, wiping away tears she didn't seem to realize she was shedding.

Hermione used her arms around his neck to pull his mouth down over hers. She didn't want to acknowledge his gesture, because to acknowledge it would mean to think on the reason for it. Her crying was not something she wanted to examine the reason behind just now. Not now as she nipped and suckled at his tongue. Not now, as he gripped her tighter, moving into her in faster, harder strokes.

Not now, as she understood how perfect his skin felt against hers. She couldn't think on the notion that they might never get to be like this, again.

She bit her lip against a scream as he brought her to orgasm. The delicious sensations rippling through her intensified as he froze over her, joining her in it.

Hermione recalled them collapsing against each other in mix of rushing breath and tired laughter. So painfully, tragically peaceful and perfect before she fall asleep, her head pillowed against his chest.

He woke her several times in the hours to follow for those repeat performances he'd mentioned.

* * *

It was early enough when they awoke that the village was still quiet. They'd helped each other dress, soaking up all they could of one another in lingering touches and brushes of lips against skin as they moved.

She was honestly surprised that he was still curled up around her when she'd opened her eyes. Yet, not nearly as surprised as she'd been when he'd escorted her from the forest and to her front door, hand-in-hand.

As they climbed her porch steps, however, the front door swung open, startling both of them.

"Hermione! Where have you—?" Aunt Minerva's half-relieved, half-angered voice dropped instantly at the sight of the man beside her niece.

He stared at her, his brows high on his forehead, and she stared right back.

After a moment, she gave him a once-over. "So, you're him, then? Fenrir Greyback?"

"And you're 'Minnie'?" he asked, a small, sad smile plucking the corners of his lips upward.

Minerva opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it again. After a moment to collect herself, she looked to Hermione. "You told him about me?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione shrugged. "Seems I didn't have to. He's had a long time of someone  _else_  filling his ears with stories of you."

Her jaw falling, Minerva looked to Fenrir, once more. Yet, his attention was diverted as he kissed Hermione one final time.

Turning back to look at the witch, he nodded. "Minnie. It was nice to have finally met you." He drew close to her, appearing to plant a kiss on her cheek.

Yet, the way her eyes shot wide told Hermione the interaction was not so simple.

Meeting Hermione's gaze in one last look, he gave her hand a squeeze. Relinquishing his hold, he started down the steps and back the way they came.

Unable to watch him walk away, the girl turned to look at her aunt. "What did he say to you?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Minerva gave her a trembling frown. "He said . . . he said he's going to put things to rights. Even if it kills him."

Her own eyes widening, now, Hermione shot a glance at Fenrir's retreating form. All the warnings he'd given her vanished in a blink.

"Oh, no you don't," she said in a hissing whisper as she hurried through the door, rushing up the stairs to her trunk. "Not without me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this little story. AND the reveal of the Big Bad (those of you in DEE know I didn't post a collage for this final chapter, only a story art piece, that was deliberate, because the collage had a pic of the character, and I felt like that might be too much of a spoiler)! I will only say that they are very OOC as per their canon personality. All the better to surprise you with, my dears 😉 (though, I think some of you may have guessed, you just didn't want to say in case the guess was wrong).

**Chapter Eight**

Minerva followed the girl back into the house, worry creasing her brow at the familiar sound of the trunk's lid hitting the floor above her head. "Hermione?" she called up the stairs. "Whatever your thinking, I beg you to reconsider!"

All but stumbling back down the steps in her hurry, Hermione shoved her dagger into her boot as she moved, her crossbow and quiver slung over her shoulder. "I can't reconsider, Auntie."

Her shoulders slumping, the witch observed her niece. She really needed to stop thinking of her as a girl, she was a grown woman, after all. Minerva supposed it had just been a way of keeping her young, keeping her close. Protecting her.

Now, as she watched this . . . this young  _woman_  ready herself to follow the man who was meant to be her mate into combat, whether he bloody well liked the idea, or not, Minerva understood. Hermione had not been that little girl who needed protecting in a very long time.

She stepped in front of the door, blocking Hermione's exit. "Wait."

Frowning, Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry, I have to go now. If I lose track of Fenrir, I might never find my way to the alpha on my own."

Minerva clamped her hands over her niece's shoulders as she nodded. "I know, I just . . . I need you to promise me you'll come back to me."

Her brow furrowing as she blinked a sudden, suspicious glimmering from her eyes, Hermione hugged the older woman. "Always, Auntie. I will  _always_ come home. Promise."

Like that, she was pulling out of her Aunt's hold and stepping around her to disappear out the door.

Stepping out to watch her go, Minerva sighed. Would she have been brave enough, all those years ago, to do what Hermione was attempting had she known it was an option?

She squared her shoulders, deciding not to think on that—the idea that this might've all been avoided, had she and Roman been a bit braver, themselves, was too guilt-ridden a notion. Nodding to herself, she whirled on her heel and went back into the house, making a bee-line for her cauldron.

She might not be able to do very much from a distance, but she wasn't a witch for nothing.

* * *

As Fenrir reached the mouth of the cave, he knew, for certain, it wasn't paranoia. He was being followed, and he knew perfectly well who it was trailing him.

She  _was_ adept at this if she'd managed to track him so far before he'd noticed.

Yet, he knew if he approached her, she'd only give him the slip. Right now, he needed to focus. The notion that her scent did pass closely enough for her to be mistaken for a werewolf unless one was standing beside her helped. She'd be able to slip into the den relatively undetected.

He also knew he should stop her, but he felt oddly strengthened by her proximity, even if she wouldn't show herself.

If he let on to her that he knew she was there, it might only complicate this entire situation. It worked in their favor if he didn't quite know what she was planning.

Forcing back any movement that might indicate that he was aware of her presence, Fenrir proceeded into the cave.

* * *

Hermione stepped from the shadow of the treeline and onto the path that led into the mouth of the cave. For a moment, there, she'd thought he caught her from the way he hesitated at the entrance.

Sparing a moment to look about, she realized why this seemed familiar.  _That's when I met him_ , Aunt Minerva had said when relaying the story of her and Roman. _I was closing in on this cave I'd heard some howls near._

Minerva had stumbled over this place all those years ago and not realized what it was.

With a determined nod, Hermione pulled her crossbow from her shoulder and loaded the slide as silently as she could. Placing her arm behind her back to conceal the readied weapon from easy view, she started after Fenrir.

After all, if she smelled enough like a wolf to have fooled Fenrir until he got close to her, none of the werewolves in that cave would notice her.  _Stick to the shadows, skirt the walls, don't draw attention to yourself unless you've no choice_ , she reminded herself in an admittedly trembly voice.

* * *

He looked up as Roman's pup approached. A smile curving his lips, he retreated to the center of the den and took a seat in the carved chair stationed before the fire pit. Ah, this Fenrir Greyback had always been an undeservedly proud creature. It often made him wonder just what  _might_  lead Fenrir to coming to ask something of him.

Fenrir was cognizant of the moment Roman had emerged from the rabble to watch what was about to unfold. Given the lack of commotion, he felt assured his maker had not told anyone of what had happened between him and one of the Dagworth wolf-children.

Though he hated every movement, Fenrir lowered himself to one knee before the  _undeservedly_ exalted Remus, latest member of the Lupin blood line to claim alphaship. Tipping his head to one side, he bared his throat in a—deplorable, false,  _hated_ —show of fealty.

Sitting back, Remus leaned his elbows upon the armrests. He didn't bother hiding his amusement as he watched the other wolf. "Fenrir . . . . Rise and speak."

Lifting his head, Fenrir met Remus' gaze and climbed to his feet. He knew it was a dangerous thing to test an alpha's patience, but he wasn't sure he cared, anymore. Every passing moment made him wonder why he bothered with this idiotic system. Nothing like a true pack, the alphas didn't watch out for their own or even lead, they only lorded their power over those subjected to the natural order of such roles.

Made him wonder why they _all_  accepted this madness so easily. Perhaps it  _was_  time for a change, after all.

"I come to ask permission to take a mate."

Remus pursed his lips in thought as he nodded. Touching his fist to his chin, he said, "And who is this creature who's won your attention, I wonder?"

"A wolf-girl from a nearby village." Fenrir made a point not to glance in Roman's direction, then. He would not let on that he knew  _anything_ about his maker's own sad tale. "I must ask permission, because . . . she is of a Dagworth family line. Hermione Granger."

"No," Remus spat out the word with a shake of his head and not even a second of thought.

"But you don't understand. She found her way to me,  _twice_. There has to be some exception."

With a feral grin, Remus stood from the chair. His eyes narrowed in look to match that grin as he spoke. "I will make no exception. In fact, for even _thinking_  to disobey this law, I believe I just might go pay a little visit to this wolf-girl of yours, myself, and—"

His words were cut short by a sickening gurgling sound and it took Fenrir a heartbeat to realize what had happened. Even seeing the spray of crimson, and the way Remus suddenly clutched at the arrow sticking through his throat didn't seem to make sense.

Both he and Remus had been so focused on their flaring tempers that they never heard the snap of the crossbow firing. The other wolves were murmuring in confusion as they looked about for the source, and Fenrir secretly found it hilarious that no one seemed to be rushing to the alpha's aid.

Remus tried to pull out the arrow, but the blood left his hands slick, the wooden shaft slipping through his fingers again and again. He somehow managed to get out the words, "What is the meaning of this?"

That was when Fenrir heard it, the sound of feet hitting the ground. Turning his head, he spotted her as she straightened from jumping down out of wherever she'd managed to secret herself away. Reloading her weapon as she approached the firepit, her unhappy gaze never left Remus Lupin's agonized face.

Hermione knew part of the reason this was not creating more of a stir. She could feel the whisper of magic in the air. Aunt Minerva had given her mission a little push toward success by casting a charm to muddle the minds of those who might interfere.

"Thank you, Auntie," she whispered as she came to stand beside Fenrir.

Aiming the crossbow, once more, she spoke, her voice loud and clear so that her words echoed against the walls of the cave, despite that her insides were positively trembling. "I am Hermione Granger, wolf-child descendant of the Dagworth family. The meaning of  _this_  is that our lives will no longer be controlled by anyone but ourselves. End the law about my family and I might let you live."

His expression a mix of fury and disbelief as he finally managed to wrench the arrow from his throat, he forced out a rasping, "No."

Fenrir winced, actually needing to look away at the dull  _thuck_ of the crossbow's trigger releasing at close range. A truly unappetizing sound of metal rending flesh and scraping bone followed. By the time he returned his attention to Remus a moment later, the alpha's body was dropping to the ground, a bloody arrow protruding from his eye and Hermione's dagger in his heart.

She watched until he stopped moving, entirely. Though shaken, she stepped over to the fallen body to tug her dagger right back out.

As she straightened up, she became aware of the shifting of bodies around her.

Swallowing hard, she looked across the cave. The wolves had come into full view, all lowering to one knee before her and bearing their throats.

All except Fenrir.

She met his gaze with wide eyes. "I don't understand what's happening."

It took a moment before a grin spread across his lips. "You killed the standing alpha. You . . .  _you're_  in charge, now."

"Bollocks," she said in a numb whisper as she looked around, again. "I did kill him. This was all it took all along?"

"These are the things that happen when people become too afraid to even try." Fenrir frowned. "We're not so different from humans."

"Well, this all ended rather anti-climactically," another voice said.

Hermione turned her attention to the man who strode up beside Fenrir. He shook his head, crinkling his nose. "His dad was tougher. Little shit."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she looked from one werewolf to the other. "What now?"

Roman swept his hand outward to indicate the entirety of the cave. "They're waiting for you to talk to them."

"Oh. Like, to tell them what to do?" The Lupins really had been awful creatures, hadn't they?

Fenrir and his maker both shrugged and nodded.

Closing her eyes, she nodded back. "The law about the Dagworth families is ended! Do not look to me for leadership—go live your own lives! Govern yourselves. Find love, have families, form your own packs if you want! Most of all, try to live peacefully so the hunts don't resume. Protect yourselves  _and_  each other. If you think of this place as home, then stay. But only if it's what  _you_ want." When she opened her eyes, she found the lot of them staring at her, awestruck.

She thought perhaps no one who'd held power over them before had considered giving them freedom over their own lives.

Roman frowned thoughtfully. "Well," he said as Hermione turned and started for the tunnel leading out to the forest, following as Fenrir fell into step beside her, "she got the hang of that nicely."

"Didn't even let me lift a finger," Fenrir muttered in a petulant tone.

* * *

"I'm back!"

Minerva thought her heart would burst from relief, alone, at the sound of her niece's voice on the porch. Sooner than she could stand from her worktable, though, the door opened.

Hermione rushed across the cottage, Fenrir stepping through the door behind her. The young woman threw her arms around her aunt, shaking, still, even as she relayed her story. Even as she thanked the witch for her assistance.

"She was amazing," Fenrir said with a proud smile. "And—"

"Didn't let you lift a finger." Hermione looked up at him from where she sat, laughing. "Never going to forgive me, are you?"

"Oh, that boy's been a bellyacher from way back," another voice chimed in, the speaker still on the porch.

Biting back a grin as her eyes watered, Hermione stood from the bench and backed up to stand beside Fenrir. Her gaze was on her aunt as she moved away.

Minerva watched the cottage's entryway, her suddenly tearing eyes wide with disbelief. Her mouth moved a few times, but no sound would come.

He stepped through the doorway, then, his hands clasped before him as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself. "Hello, Minnie."

"Roman?" the name left her lips in a breathless whisper.

Hermione didn't know if it was her imagination, but it appeared the years melted away from the witch's face as she stood from the table and made her way toward him on measured footfalls. She seemed afraid that if she moved too fast, he'd vanish as though he'd never really been there at all.

Minerva let out a quiet laugh as she reached him. "You haven't changed at all."

He shrugged, echoing her sound of amusement. "Werewolf."

Immediately feeling self-conscious, Minerva raised her hands to her face. "Oh, but . . . I've gotten old. You couldn't possibly still—"

He cut her off by catching her hands in his own. Gently pushing them away, he stroked the lines around her eyes with the tips of his fingers. "You'll never not be beautiful to me, Minnie."

Hermione didn't even realize her eyes were watering as she watched them. She knew the embrace they shared in that moment was  _far_  long overdue.

"You're crying," Fenrir said in her ear, his voice low so as not to disturb the reunited mates.

Sniffling, she gave him a shaky smile as she turned her head to meet his gaze. "I'm happy. And a little bit impressed with myself."

"As you should be. That  _was_  rather terrifying of you back there. But happy is good."

"Happy is good," she echoed, slipping her arms around his waist.

"And, this might be presumptuous of me, but I aim to keep you happy for as long as I'm able. That's, well, if you'll have me."

"Oh, shut up, you," she said, snickering.

"So," he said, guiding her head to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. "Still want to become what I am?"

She nodded. "But, you know, someday."

Smirking, he rested his chin atop her head as they watched Roman and Minnie having some hushed conversation that was all smiles and lingering, loving touches.

"Someday is good," he echoed.

**THE END**


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